We are burning together
by Leitis
Summary: Andraste's death from Hessarian POV.


..."Unsatisfied" doesn't even begin to desribe how unhappy I'm with this text. I mean, I like the idea - it actually came to me at night, as all good ideas do - but I'm absolutely horrible at implementing it. Aaaaand after typing it I suddenly realized how much I have borrowed from Bulgakov's "The Master and Margarita". Only, you know, Bulgakov was a genius, and me? I'm not even sure I should have written it down.

Okay, I'm feeling particularly self-hating right now, but I still hope you will enjoy reading this. And please, please tell me about my mistakes! I'm sure there're plenty, since the text is, as usual, unbetaed, though I did my best to fix what I could.

* * *

The sun was shining blindingly bright, and the heat was almost unbearable. Heavy and excessively opulent archon's robes only worsened the matter. It must have been even worse to the guards though, considering their heavy armor.

"And much, much worse to that woman," Hessarian thought idly.

Time was crawling horribly slow. The trial had been held and the sentence announced yesterday, and all formalities were over, but scorching heat, dry wind and the smell of hundreds sweating bodies made every second last for ages. The moment of triumph, when that slave bitch was captured and her excuse of an army destroyed, was over, and now only the messy execution and endless boredom were due. Honestly, what could possibly be more disgusting than burning someone alive? Nauseating smell of burning flesh, deafening screams and fire. Fire, Razikale's fangs! As if the weather in Minrathous wasn't hot enough already!

Were it up to Hessarian, he would have chosen hanging. Quick, clean, no wasted wood. But no, said Vasilia. She must suffer, said Vasilia. Her death will be a lesson to everyone who dares oppose Imperium. His wife was right, of course, but it didn't make her any less annoying.

What, was there some movement finally?

Hessarian narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what was going on below, under the massive platform where he, his wife and a few elite bodyguards were standing. Huge crowd had gathered there, and near the border of the square where execution was to be held he could see guards dragging a slim figure with them. Ah, there she is, then. The former slave couldn't walk on her own – unsurprisingly, after all the interrogations and torture.

"Useless," the archon thought suddenly, the word emerging from the sleepy, bored jumble of his mind. "Useless life and useless death. She didn't achieve anything, and all she did was for nothing. How… pathetic."

Sudden anger dissipated as swiftly as it came. Hessarian sighed quietly and looked down at the crowd. Now, the most unpleasant part was to come. And he still wanted to drink, preferably, somewhere cool and calm. Like in, his palace.

Now, he was to say something.

"In the name of true gods, eternally protecting the Tevinter Imperium, may the prescribed sentence be carried out."

There, it will have to do. Who has the patience for long speeches anyway? Especially when the weather was like that?

Hessarian pursed his lips in annoyance and finally looked down at the pyre.

And forgot how to breathe.

The woman was already tied to the pole. The rugs she was wearing were barely enough to preserve her modesty, and all her body was covered with cuts and bruises, but it didn't diminish her beauty. She was unearthly beautiful.

What was her name, anyway? Among the magisters she was never called anything other than "slave bitch" or "that woman". Hessarian thought for a few moments, while still staring at her lithe form, and finally remembered. Andraste.

An-dras-te. Bitter, sharp name, each syllable brought the taste of ashes to his mouth. Andraste.

The archon finally drew a shuddering breath and looked around. Didn't anyone else understand? Didn't anyone see how beautiful she was?

He was frequently tempted by seductive desire demons, and he could have any woman of the Imperium he wanted, but he had never seen such beauty, such absolute perfection. He understood suddenly how she managed to gather such an army, to win so many allies. It was impossible not to follow her.

And she was dying.

The smell of burning flesh touched his nostrils, but there wasn't a single sound. The crowd was silent, and so was Andraste. Not a single scream escaped her tightly-closed lips and her face was serene and calm, her eyes closed.

And yet, she was dying. She was in pain.

"Your sword," the archon ordered, holding his hand to the nearest bodyguard. The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he obeyed immediately, handing Hessarian a sword with a subservient bow. The archon snatched it and swiftly ran down from the platform, ignoring the indignant sound made by his wife. In a few short strides he made his way to the pyre, the crowd hurriedly parting before him.

The smell was almost unbearable here, as was the heat, the flames almost touching his garment, but Hessarian ignored it, just as he was ignoring surprised mutterings coming from the crowd. This near to the burning woman he could see every horrible scorch on her body, every blister on her once alabaster skin. It was too late to try to save her, even with the help of healing magic, and so he did the only thing he could, and drove the sword through her chest.

Andraste's eyes flew open, and she smiled at him, just a little.

"Thank. You," she breathed, and he knew it, even though he couldn't actually hear the words through the roar of fire.

Then her eyes became glassy, and she died.

Among the perplexed crowd, under the hot sun and near the blazing fire, Hessarian suddenly felt cold, and alone.


End file.
